


The Family Job

by ScoutLover



Category: Leverage
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, F/M, Gen, Goodbyes, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoutLover/pseuds/ScoutLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sophie leaves the team, Parker begs Eliot to "retrieve" her</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Family Job

**Author's Note:**

> This follows _The Two Live Crew Job_. I loved that ep, I loved the ending, but, y'know, what about the rest of the team? And, yeah, I seriously want Sister Kickass to come back.

He stood at the sink, empty tea kettle dangling forgotten from his left hand as cold water rushed from the faucet before him, and stared down at the phone in his right hand until long after the screen had gone dark, stupidly waiting for it to ring again with the call that would wipe away the previous one. But the sick feeling in his gut assured him that call wasn’t coming; Nate’s words had been soft, sad, and utterly final. His throat tightened and his gut clenched hard, and for a few long moments his whole world tilted and went gray.

It was the David job all over again.

He swore softly and only barely resisted the urge to hurl the phone into the nearest wall. Fuck, when would he learn? He dropped the kettle into the sink and turned off the water with an angry force, furious at his own stupidity. He should have expected this, should have been waiting for it. But he’d allowed himself to get comfortable – hell, he’d bought a fuckin’ _house_! – and had started thinking in terms of “home” and “us” and, God help him, “family.”

Just like last time.

And she’d been the one to yank the world out from under them then, too.

He swore again and tossed the phone onto the counter, watching without caring as it hit the tile splashboard and bounced into the sink. And all because of her fucked-up _thing_ with Nate. The two of them just kept dancing around each other, wanting each other so badly everyone else around them was scorched by the heat, but kept apart by ghosts, liquor and enough emotional dysfunction to keep a hundred therapists busy for a decade.

He just wished they’d quit burning down _his_ world while they tried to find their way through the fire.

He sighed heavily and bowed his head, scrubbing his hand over his face and flinching as his fingers hit the fresh gash just above his left eye, a souvenir of his fight two nights ago in the auction house. His mouth twisted into a sardonic grin. _Mikel._ Now _there_ was a woman after his own heart – maybe quite literally. She’d been sent against him to take him out of the equation during Stark’s try for the painting, had most likely shot him six years ago in Myanmar, would almost certainly kill him even now without a moment’s hesitation if it came to that. And he’d spent much of the past two days and nights having body-breaking, mind-bending, room-wrecking sex with her. He snorted and shook his head.

Hell, what right did he have to judge Sophie and Nate? He was as fucked up as they were–

“Eliot?”

He looked up sharply, startled by her voice, and sucked in a breath at the sight of her. She wore nothing but her black lace panties and one of his shirts, unbuttoned and hanging open to expose the taut swell of her full, firm breasts and the tight, flat belly he’d found such delight in licking and kissing. And, yeah, those looked to be the imprints of his fingertips staining her left hip. Her dark hair tumbled about her in long, loose waves, still damp from the shower, and a faint frown teased the corners of her full lips. He absently licked his own and watched, transfixed, as she came toward him. She moved with all the supple grace and latent power of a cat on the prowl, and he couldn’t help but remember with a sudden pooling of heat in his belly the feel of that lithe body wrapping around and moving against his as they’d driven each other over the edge time and time again. She was the best he’d had in a long time, a woman whose passion, strength and endurance matched his own, and one who didn’t need explanations for his scars and slightly paranoid habits–

And she was a stone killer.

Just like him.

Hell, who was he kidding? _Fucked up_ didn’t begin to describe him!

“What’s wrong?” she asked as she joined him at the sink, watching the play of thoughts and emotions across his face. She could see the want there, want she knew was for her, but there was so much else besides. When she’d come in, he’d looked angry, confused, and strangely vulnerable.

Not something she would have associated with Eliot Spencer at all.

She pressed herself close against him, delighting in the feel of his heat and hardness against her. He was shirtless and wore torn and faded jeans unbuttoned at the waist, and she all but purred in appreciation of his body. Unlike other hitters she’d known, and faced, he wasn’t a hulking brute, but was all lean, compact power and precision, a man whose strength, speed and skill more than made up for any lack of inches.

And who was every bit as good in bed as he was in a fight.

She slipped an arm about him, her fingers slipping into the waistband of his jeans and stroking his hip, and set her chin on his bare shoulder, smiling as his long hair tickled her face. She wished he were wearing his glasses; she’d discovered, to their mutual pleasure, that fucking a man in wire-rims just _did_ something to her. He sighed softly and leaned into her, and she lifted her other hand to his naked chest, brushing long fingers lightly over the bruise she’d bitten into his right pectoral last night. “Is everything all right?” she asked quietly, feeling the tension melting slowly from him beneath her hands. “When I came in, you looked disturbed.”

He chuckled quietly and turned his head to press a light, fleeting kiss to her lips. _Disturbed._ Hell, that was as good a description of him as any.

She suddenly noticed the phone in the sink and pulled her hand away from his chest to retrieve it, arching a dark brow as she held it out to him. “Bad news?” she asked knowingly, having killed a few electronic messengers herself.

He took the phone from her and stared down at it for a moment or two, still hoping for that damn “fix-it” call, then scowled and tossed it onto the counter again. This time it stayed there. Hardison would be happy; Geekboy was starting to get bitchy about the number of phones he ruined. Like it was _his_ fault the damned things couldn’t take a decent punch–

“Eliot?”

He retrieved the kettle and stuck it under the faucet, turning on the water to fill it. “Sophie’s leavin’,” he rasped, shocked at how much the words hurt to say, at how deep a hole they left in him. “Nate called a few minutes ago.”

She pulled away slightly and frowned at him in surprise and confusion. It had been her understanding that his crew was a permanent one, not a whiz mob that split after a job, and was based here in Boston. They had pulled off the job, had somehow managed to steal _all_ the paintings, and gotten revenge on that little shit Mason as well. They had won. “Leaving? But– Ah,” she breathed, smirking slightly as understanding dawned. “She’s going back to Stark–”

“Hell, no!” he snapped, rounding on her angrily and driving her back a step. “It’s got nothin’ ta do with him! Shit, he’s not even in her league. She– Fuck!” he growled as his phone finally _did_ ring again. He considered not answering it, knowing it wouldn’t be the news he wanted to hear, but suspected ignoring it wouldn’t make it stop. Nate had almost certainly told Hardison and Parker by now, and he knew those two well enough to realize they’d simply hound him until he picked up.

Aimee had said he’d finally found a family. It figured that he’d find one that was drivin’ him fuckin’ nuts!

He reached down and snatched the phone off the counter, thumbing the “answer” button on the screen and jerking the thing to his ear. “What?” he growled, never looking at the caller ID. For long moments, he heard only a silence broken by what sounded like soft but ragged breathing. Puzzled, he lowered the phone and looked at the screen, then turned away from Mikel and walked to the stove, setting the kettle on a burner and turning the gas on beneath it. Still keeping his back to Mikel, he raised the phone once more to his ear and asked quietly, “Parker? That you?”

He tried to brace himself for whatever Parker-flavored craziness would come pouring into his ear, but nothing prepared him for what he heard.

_“Nate called. Sophie’s leaving. She’s going away. From us.”_

Her voice was thin, flat, utterly devoid of inflection or emotion. Yet, somehow, she sounded so broken, so young, that his heart twisted in pain. And every protective instinct he kept telling himself he didn’t have surged immediately to the fore.

“I know, darlin’. He called me, too. But it’s got nothin’ to do with us,” he said gently, trying to reassure her. “You know she’s been a little off since that asshole dumped her–” _And there was a guy who might be in for a beating._ “Hell, she probably just … I don’t know … needs a change of scenery. Europe, probably. Paris. Hell,” he forced a chuckle, “she’s probably goin’ over there to buy a shitload of shoes. Or just steal ’em.”

_“She can steal shoes here. And she could take me with her. I don’t care about shoes, but I like stealing. And it’s even more fun when we do it together. She didn’t even say goodbye. Did she say goodbye to you? If she needs to steal something, why didn’t she ask me to go with her?”_

He sighed and bowed his head, closing his eyes and reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose in his habitual response to Parker. “I don’t know, darlin’. Maybe–”

_“She’s leaving, and you have to stop her.”_

He raised his head sharply and wrenched open his eyes, frowning deeply. “Why me?”

Parker heaved a heavy sigh into the phone, and he could almost feel her eyes rolling. _“Because Nate won’t. I already asked him, and he said no. He said we have to respect her decision.”_

He snorted softly. Nate _would_ say that, instead of what he _ought_ to be saying. Man was a fucking genius when it came to manipulating other people’s lives, but couldn’t keep his own from falling apart. “Parker–”

_“You have to stop her. She’ll listen to you.”_

He almost laughed aloud at that. Right. Because he and Sophie agreed so often. Hell, did Parker understand _anything_ about people?

_“Besides, it’s part of your job.”_

He knew better, knew it was a mistake, and tried to stop himself. But the words came out anyway. “How do you figure that?”

 _“You’re a retrieval specialist. Duh.”_   Her voice brightened considerably, and he could almost see the strange, loopy, Parker smile spreading across her face. _“So, go retrieve Sophie. It’s what you do.”_

He let his head fall back and stared up at the ceiling, wishing it would fall in on him right now. “Parker–”

And the formidable thief who could pick any lock, best any security system, crack any safe, proved just as adept at cracking _him_.

 _“Please,”_ she whispered in a small and shaking voice, _“I need you to do this.”_

And suddenly he was back in the cab of a truck in Kentucky, pleading with Parker to go against her own fears for the sake of a woman he’d long since lost any hope of getting back. She’d done it, though whether for him or for Aimee he’d never been certain–

No, that was a lie. He was pretty sure he knew. And he owed her for it.

“All right,” he sighed, closing his eyes and running a hand through his hair. “I’ll try.” Her sudden squeal had him jerking the phone away from his ear and cringing in pain. “Damn it, Parker!”

She stopped squealing and giggled instead. _“You can do it, I know! You’re the best retrieval specialist I know!”_

He sighed and bowed his head, again pinching his nose. “I’m the only one you know,” he reminded her, suddenly regretting all the sleep he _hadn’t_ been getting with Mikel.

_“Whatever. I’m pretty sure you’re the best. Nate’s always saying so, and he knows these things. I’ll call Hardison and tell him you’re getting Sophie back for us. Oh! Then you can cook us all a big happy reunion dinner!”_

He pulled the phone away from his ear and stared down at it in absolute befuddlement, desperately wishing Parker’s calls came with subtitles. Hell, _every_ conversation with Parker needed subtitles! He shook his head, trying to clear it, then put the phone back to his ear, determined to make one more attempt at making Parker see reality.

Yeah, _that_ always worked.

“Listen to me, Parker,” he said gruffly, “you need to understand this. I’m not forcin’ her, okay? Sophie’s–” What? A friend? Family? Someone he cared about, someone he–

And, no, he wasn’t going there.

“I’ll talk to her, but I’m not forcin’ her. So, you know,” he sighed again, suddenly tired to his bones and feeling every bruise Mikel had punched, kicked, bitten and fucked into him, “don’t make any plans for that dinner,” he finished wearily.

 _“I’ll bring carrots.”_ Naturally, she just ignored him, having already settled matters in her own mind. _“You should eat more carrots. They’re good for your eyes. Maybe if you eat enough of them you can stop wearing glasses.”_ And the line went dead.

He sighed yet again, let his head fall forward and lifted his hand to its familiar spot at the bridge of his nose. Hell, maybe he should eat more carrots. Because if he hung around Parker much longer, he’d pinch his nose off his face and wouldn’t have any way of keeping his glasses up.

“Eliot?”

The quiet voice behind him brought his head up again and wrung still another sigh from him. Mikel. Fuckin’ beautiful ex-Mossad agent who was as good in bed as she was with rifle – and, really, how fucked up was it that he knew _both_ from first-hand experience, and was okay with it? – standing in his kitchen, wearing nothing but her panties and his shirt, ready for round thirty-two or whatever it was by now–

And he had to go and try to steal Sophie back for Parker, because Nate was too much of a fuckin’ idiot to do it himself.

His life sucked.

He turned slowly to face her, and tried to keep his gaze from straying to her breasts. _And good luck with that, Spencer!_ He forced a strained smile, then let it fade. And sighed again.

“I gotta go,” he said softly, wondering how his life had come to this. Leaving Mikel to chase down Sophie because Parker had knee-capped him with a _please_. “You can stay if you want. There’s plenty of food in the fridge–” He frowned suddenly, trying to remember the rules he’d learned years ago. “Some of it should even be kosher.”

She stared at him in shock, unable to believe what she was hearing. He was _walking out_ on her? _Now?_   “You’re going after her?”

He gave a pained smile. “Apparently, it’s what I do.” He went to her and took her in his arms, pulling her to him and seeking her mouth with his. _But he’d so much rather be doing this!_ She slipped an arm about his waist and slid her other hand through his hair, pressing herself close against him and driving her crotch into his, reminding him none too subtly of what he had right here. She dragged her nails slowly down his back and he groaned and buried his mouth in hers, crushing her to him and shuddering as heat seared through his hard and aching cock.

Damn Parker. Damn Sophie. And damn him for being such a fucking stupid fool.

“Stay if you want,” he breathed into her mouth, slowly disentangling himself from her despite her protests, and those of his own body. “I’ll be back, and we can finish breakin’ the bed. Or, hell, there’s the dinin’ table we ain’t tried yet.” He kissed her again, and then finally pushed her away, trying not to think about how good it would be just to stay with her and let her do that thing she did with her tongue.

And trying not to shudder at the dark storm rising in her eyes.

“But if you decide to leave,” he forced another grin, “just don’t burn my house down on your way out.”

*~*~*

“C’mon on, Hardison, gimme somethin’!” he snarled. He had pulled his bike into a bank parking lot, and found himself casing the building out of sheer frustration. Parker had apparently roped the hacker into the Sophie Job as well, and Hardison was tracking their “mark” as only he could, relaying information and directions to Eliot through their ear buds.

The only problem was, Sophie coped with distress by shopping. A lot. And Eliot refused to set foot inside one more ridiculously expensive and perfume-fogged “boutique,” where his very appearance drew every security guard within a five-mile radius.

Though some of the sales girls – right, _associates_ – had been very nice–

And, hell, you’d think a bank of this size would have more security. Could be worth taking a look inside. If Sophie didn’t come back, maybe he could bring Parker here to console her–

_“Got her,”_ Hardison said with what Eliot just knew would be a smug grin. _“She’s headin’ back to the hotel. Probably melted all the numbers off her credit cards. Man, with all the shit she bought, I don’t even wanta think about how much it’s gonna cost her to check her bags at the airport. I mean, you know, **I’m** a thief, and **I** think those fees are criminal!”_

Eliot rolled his eyes and put his helmet back on. “Fine, talk to Nate. Maybe next time we can take down an airline.” He started the bike. “She’d better be there, Hardison,” he growled.

_“Yeah, yeah, I know,”_ the hacker said. _“You gave up more hot, handcuff-sex with Mossad Mama for this.”_ His voice suddenly softened. _“Thanks, man.”_

“I’m not doin’ it for you,” Eliot grumbled.

_“I know,”_ Hardison said. _“Parker says thank you, too. And … somethin’ about carrots.”_

Eliot snorted, checked the traffic and roared into the street, flipping off the driver who honked at him.

This family shit was nuts.

*~*~*

“I’m not goin’ in as a fuckin’ bellhop!” he snapped.

_“How come you don’t give Nate this much lip when he tells you what to do?”_ Hardison griped. _“Hell, you’ve been a waiter for him!”_

“You’re not Nate, and I’m not goin’ in as a _fuckin’ bellhop_!” he spat, turning and stalking further away from the front door as an elderly couple going into the hotel stopped to stare at him. “Just hack the system and get my name on her room so I can get a goddamn key!”

_“Which name do you want me to use?”_

_“Hell, I don’t fuckin’ care!”_ he shouted, his brain on the verge of exploding. “Just _pick_ one!”

_“All right, all right, shit!”_ Hardison barked back in his ear. _“Damn, you’re testy today! I’da thought all that time with Sister Kickass woulda settled you down some. You got some serious anger management issues, my man.”_

Eliot opened his mouth to shout again, but snapped it shut when he saw more patrons staring and a few backing away. He exhaled sharply and bowed his head, his fingers going again to the bridge of his nose. Not just a Parker-induced thing, then. “Hardison!” he seethed.

_“It’s done, man,”_ the hacker gloated. _“The room now belongs to one Lindsey McDonald. You’re welcome.”_

Eliot frowned and shook his head. “Who the hell is that? That’s not one of my IDs!”

_“Then maybe you should try bein’ nicer to the man behind the curtain,”_ Hardison sniped. _“You’re a lawyer. With severe moral issues. And you drive a crappy truck. So there.”_

“Hardison, I swear ta God–” He forcibly swallowed the rest of the threat. “What if they ask for ID? I don’t have any with _that_ name!” He narrowed his eyes suspiciously and scowled again. “That’s not some Star Trek thing, is it?”

Hardison’s sigh was long and martyred. _“Seriously, man, we have **got** to get you a TV! Now, go on. You’re a professional. I know you can do this. Remember, Parker says thank you.”_

Eliot spat out a curse that sent yet another patron scuttling away. When this was done, he was gonna kill Hardison.

With one of Parker’s goddamned carrots.

*~*~*

Ten minutes later, he was coming out of the men’s room and moving across the grand lobby with a quick, tight stride, head slightly bowed and shoulders hunched, and darting nervous glances at everyone who passed him. He’d gotten the gash above his eye bleeding again with little effort and ripped a hole in his shirt – Hardison was so paying for a new one – and had even bloodied his knuckles by scraping them against the wall.

Yeah, that had hurt like hell.

But it worked. As he reached the front desk and leaned heavily against it, pressing nicely trembling fingers to the wound in his head, a clerk came hurrying to him, her lovely face twisting into a mask of concern as she took in his battered appearance.

“Oh, my God, are you all right?” she asked anxiously. “What happened? Can I call someone for you?”

He forced a slight, pained smile. “I– I think I’m all right,” he rasped, stretching out his drawl. “But thank you for askin’. I just– I just need a new key to my room. I seem to have lost it when–” His smile faded and he flinched, bowing his head and clasping his hands tightly together on the desk before him. The young woman’s soft brown eyes brimmed with sympathy as they dropped to his blood-stained fingers and bruised knuckles. “I don’t even really know what happened,” he breathed. “I was just walkin’ around, takin’ in the sights, when they jumped me. Got my wallet– Reckon I’m what they call an easy mark.”

“Oh!” she gasped, her eyes widening further still. “You were mugged! Oh, sir–”

“Lindsey,” he corrected with a small smile, glancing up at her from beneath his lashes. “Lindsey McDonald. Came up here from Tulsa for a job interview– I reckon I’ll be goin’ back home after this, though. Seems Boston just ain’t for me.” He could hear Hardison sputtering in his ear, but he ignored the hacker and concentrated on the young woman – Emily, by her name tag – before him. “Reckon I need ta call ’em, let ’em know I won’t be tryin’ for that job after all. So if I could get another key, I’d be obliged. Miss Emily,” he added with another smile.

_“Oh. My. God,”_ Hardison protested. _“No! That hayseed shit is **not** workin’! Seriously, man? Lemme guess, you’re battin’ them baby blues at her, too, ain’t you? Naw, man. Boston women are too sophisticated to fall for that–”_

“Let me just look that up,” Emily said, moving to the computer. “Lindsey– Oh, here we go.” She looked up at him. “Have you talked to the police? Seen a doctor? We can arrange–”

“Thank you kindly, darlin’,” he breathed. “Maybe later. But I just wanta rest up a bit first.” He shuddered and hunched his shoulders tighter. “’S kind of a shock, ya know? I mean, you hear about these things, but– I guess I just wasn’t cut out for life in the big city. Ain’t real crazy about the folks I’ve met so far.” He smiled shyly and ducked his head. “Well, ’cept for you, that is. You’re the brightest ray of sunshine I’ve seen all day. You got no idea how much your kindness means to me.”

_“I’m gonna throw up,”_ Hardison groaned.

“Not at all,” she assured him, quickly programming a new key card for him. “You’ve had a terrible ordeal, and I only wish I could do more.” She held out the card to him, smiling sweetly at him. “I just hope you won’t think badly of everyone in Boston after this. Most of us really are good people.”

He took her hand, bent over it and lightly kissed it. “You’re provin’ that to me right now, Miss Emily. Thank you.” He squeezed her hand once and let it go. “I’ll be sure and leave a note for your boss, lettin’ him know just how kind you’ve been.” He smiled and bobbed his head again, then turned away and started toward the elevators. Grinning.

_“You got no shame, man,”_ Hardison scolded in his ear. _“Playin’ that little girl like that. Seriously, there’s a special place in hell for people like you.”_

“We’re all goin’ to hell, Hardison,” he said. “No reason we shouldn’t enjoy the ride.”

*~*~*

She stood in the bedroom and stared at the array of shopping bags before her. It was ridiculous, really, to have bought so much when she’d known she’d only have to pack it. But she had needed … _something_ … to distract herself–

He hadn’t tried to stop her.

She exhaled unsteadily and crossed her arms tightly against her chest, raising suddenly-wet eyes to the ceiling. He hadn’t even _tried_ to stop her.

Because he’d understood.

She smiled slightly, sadly. Of course, he understood. Who could possibly understand _better_ than a man who’d lost everything, lost _himself_ , and still had no idea where to start looking? He knew what this strange selflessness was, knew what it was to look in the mirror and no longer recognize the person staring back. Neither one of them was who they’d been ten years ago. The trouble was, they didn’t know the people they’d become, either.

But he could have at least _tried_ –

“Oh, stop it!” she chided herself angrily, lifting a hand to wipe a stray tear from her cheek. “This is what you wanted, remember? What you told him you needed? He was just trying to be–”

What? A friend?

And how sad, how _tragic_ , was it that neither of them really knew what that meant?

But maybe this was their chance to learn …

She sighed and moved to the bed, staring down at the various passports strewn across it. All those names, all those photos, and none of them _her_. She didn’t even have a passport under her real name, didn’t have _anything_ under her real name. Somehow, she’d allowed the person she truly was to become less real than the countless identities she’d created. She couldn’t even remember who the real _her_ was any more.

Or whether that person was worth resurrecting–

“Were you even gonna say goodbye?”

The low, soft voice behind her startled her badly and she whirled around with a sharp cry, raising her arms defensively to fend off the intruder. But recognition dawned immediately and she relaxed, exhaling unsteadily and pressing a hand to her chest over her racing heart.

“Eliot!”

He stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, hands jammed in his pockets and booted feet crossed. His blue eyes stared back at her, dark and more than a little angry. And, entirely to her surprise, hurt.

“How did you get in here?” she asked, then winced at the stupidity of the question. As if a hotel room door would prove a challenge. She looked more closely at him then, saw the rawness of the gash in his forehead and torn shirt, and felt a sudden twinge of unease. “You didn’t hurt anyone, did you?”

He snorted softly. “Wouldn’t have been worth it,” he said cuttingly, rewarded by a small flinch from her. “Just needed a way in without ID.” He smiled sardonically. “So I was mugged. Girl down at the desk was very sympathetic to the poor hillbilly who’d been so ill-used in the big city.” He pulled a card out of his pocket and held it up. “Gave me a brand new key to my room.”

She smiled slightly, easily able to imagine how that had played out. She had seen Eliot’s charm when he chose to use it, knew how potent a force he could be when he flashed that aw-shucks grin and those blue eyes and let loose that drawl. Had she met him years ago, she could have made him into a first-class grifter. “You are good,” she said approvingly.

“Learned from the best.” He tore his gaze from her and swept it around the room. “You takin’ all this shit with you when you go?”

She winced at the hardness, the coldness, in his voice and manner. Of them all, he’d been the slowest to forgive her for the team’s capture by Sterling and forced breakup, had seemed more deeply hurt by that than his injuries from the fight with Sterling’s hitter. He wasn’t a man who trusted easily, or at all, and she’d broken the trust he had so slowly come to place in her. And now, just when she’d finally gotten it back, she’d done it again.

_I was just gettin’ used to it,_ he’d said back then. _Bein’ part of team._

But she had brought them back together. And now she was leaving.

And she had no idea what to say to the man before her.

He, however, had no such problem. “So, what is it this time?” he asked, folding his arms against his chest and fixing his gaze once more on her. “Stark make you miss the old days? Give you the itch to get back in the game? Or is this your way of getting Nate to chase you again? Bring back _those_ old days?”

“How dare you!” she snapped as his harsh words ignited a coil of anger within her. “You have no idea–”

“Then _tell_ me!” he shouted, his frustration, and his confusion, springing free. He shoved himself away from the door frame and stalked into the bedroom, needing to pace. But there was no room, not with Sophie’s crap everywhere, and the realization sent his frustration boiling over into anger. Goddamn it, she’d just torn them apart _again_ , and had celebrated by going _shopping_!

“Forget it!” he growled, spinning on his heel and striding furiously back out of the room. What was the fucking use?

“Eliot, wait!” She hurried after him, not wanting it to end like this. Not again. She knew how badly she had messed up everything last time, and couldn’t bear the thought of leaving it like that again. “Don’t go yet! _Please!_ ”

And there it was again.

He stopped abruptly and bowed his head, closing his eyes as a flash of pain ripped through him. _Please._ He ran a hand through his hair. Fuck it, when had a _please_ from these women become so goddamned powerful? Parker, with her inability to ask for anything because she just knew it wouldn’t be granted, and Sophie, who could ask for everything because she knew it would be–

This wasn’t what he’d bargained for. He was just supposed to _work_ with these people, to join his skills with theirs and maybe atone a little for some of the things he’d done in his past while making a nice bit of money in the process. It was a _job_ – or it should have been – with people every bit as fucked up as him, people he respected because, hell yeah, they were the best at what they did, but who he never in a million goddamned years should have been unbelievably fucking _stupid_ enough to let anywhere _near_ what passed for his heart.

Jesus fucking Christ, what had he been _thinking_?

“The last time,” Sophie said softly, stopping just behind him, close enough to touch him but not daring to, “you were right to be angry with me. I wanted to hurt Nate, but I ended up hurting all of you as well. I lied to you, I _conned_ you, and I set you up perfectly for Sterling. I never intended that last, but I know that doesn’t matter. I betrayed you, and you were right to blame me for all that happened.” She clasped her hands tightly together to still their trembling and watched him intently for any sign that he was listening. And, for once, she made no effort to control her voice, to shape its tone and her words, knowing the slightest hint of insincerity, of a grifter at work, would have him bolting from here in an instant, with no hope of trust between them ever again. “But this time isn’t like that, I swear! I need you to believe me, Eliot. And I need you to let me go.”

“Why’re you doin’ this?” he rasped, raising his head but not turning to face her. Not certain he _could_ face her; it just hurt too much. “I thought … we were all okay this time. I thought … we’d figured it out. I mean, hell–” He sighed heavily and did turn slowly to face her then, his heart and soul twisting into knots. “Nate even quit drinkin’! That’s what you wanted, right? It’s what we _all_ wanted! He came back to us– Hell, we _all_ came back! Everything was supposed to be _okay_!”

She stared at him in shock. Whatever she’d been expecting from him, it wasn’t _this_ , the pain and confusion pouring in raw waves from his eyes, the desperate vulnerability in his face, the haunted look of a man watching his last chance at something approaching a real _life_ slipping out of his hands. She’d seen Eliot Spencer take punishing blows from men much bigger than he and come out bloody but victorious. She had never imagined that _she_ would deal the blow that would drive him to his knees.

“Sometimes,” she breathed, her heart aching unbearably, “things don’t work out quite the way we planned.”

He blinked and frowned, then laughed harshly and shook his head. “That’s it?” he asked incredulously, unable to believe what he’d just heard. “ _That’s_ your little bit of wisdom? ‘Sometimes things don’t work out?’ Fuckin’ hell, Sophie, how long have you been workin’ on _that_ little gem?”

“Eliot–”

“ _No!_ ” he interrupted furiously, raising a hand sharply to silence her. “I’m sorry, but you don’t get to brush me, _us_ , off with some shit piece of fortune cookie garbage! ‘Sometimes things don’t work out’? _Really?_ After everything we’ve been through together, _that’s_ what you’re gonna leave us with? Hell, I always thought you were better than that!”

“Yes, well, I suppose you don’t know me as well as you thought!” she snapped back defensively. She knew they deserved more; she just wasn’t certain she could give it to them. How could she give them answers she didn’t have?

“Yeah, I guess not,” he sneered.

Angry words rose immediately to her lips, but she refused to let them pass, knowing they would only make things worse. She had one chance to make this right, to keep her pain from destroying what she had found with these people, and she wouldn’t – _couldn’t_ – risk screwing that up. Eliot was the key. Parker and Hardison would take their cues from him, perhaps even more so than from Nate where she was concerned. If she were to salvage anything from this mess, she had to start with him.

But, God, she wished he didn’t look as if he expected her to plunge a knife into his heart …

She swallowed and shook her head slowly, holding his gaze with hers. “Please, Eliot,” she said softly, “let’s not do this. Not now. As you said, we’ve all been through too much together. Give me a chance to explain. This isn’t a con, I promise.” She smiled sadly. “Right now, I don’t have any cons left in me.”

He stared at her for long moments, studying her as he would an opponent, measuring her, searching for any hidden weapons, any traps. For once, though, all he saw was Sophie, pale, tired, sad, and utterly and achingly honest. More confused by that than anything else, he exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he said tightly. He looked around the room, suddenly very much in need of a drink. “Where the hell’s the minibar?”

“In the kitchen,” she answered, deciding a drink sounded like a very good idea. She wasn’t afraid of Eliot, knew no matter how angry or hurt he was, he wouldn’t hurt her. But she also knew he wouldn’t make this easy for her, either. She had seen him take on Nate, whether in chess or one of their frequent battle of wills, often enough to know he was a formidable opponent. “And it’s not a minibar. It’s a rather well-stocked _bar_.” He arched an eyebrow, and she smiled wryly. “Only the best for Sophie Devereaux,” she quipped. Then her smile faded. “Or whoever else I am this week,” she murmured.

He felt a twist of sadness for her then, for the deep weariness in her eyes and voice. He knew she’d had a rough time of it lately, had seemed a bit lost, but he’d never realized just _how_ lost. The cracks had started with that Widmark kid in the private school, a kid whose search for an identity of his own had seemed to touch off something in Sophie, and had only grown wider since. It was only now that he was seeing just _how_ wide they had grown, and he felt his anger at her fading.

Jesus, they were all a mess.

“You want anything?”

“White wine– Oh, fuck it,” she sighed, “get me some bourbon.”

He chuckled at her uncharacteristic obscenity and saluted her with two fingers. “Comin’ right up, ma’am,” he drawled, turning away.

She followed him to the rather elaborate kitchen – and, really, who checked into a hotel like this to _cook_? – and watched as he found the bottle and glasses and began to pour. And suddenly she envied him. He was, she knew, one of the very best at what he did, though she tried _very_ hard not to think about exactly what that was, yet there was nothing boastful or arrogant about him, none of Hardison’s youthful and sometimes grating cockiness, none of Nate’s infuriating smugness. He was quiet, steady, unfailingly reliable, and sometimes shockingly easy to underestimate. But he, almost alone of them all, seemed always to know exactly who and what he was, seemed to have no illusions, no pretense, no doubts, no need to create one identity after another to hide behind. He made no excuses for himself or what he did, never sought to sugarcoat or deny it, seemed simply to accept the choices he had made and all their consequences.

She had no idea whether Eliot Spencer was his real name, but she had no doubt that was who he truly was.

“Bourbon for the lady,” he said with a conciliatory smile, handing a glass to her and raising his own. “Here’s to Miss Sophie Devereaux, the belle of every ball.”

She smiled in return and clinked her glass lightly against his. “Why, thank you, sir,” she said in her best Southern drawl. “It’s always a delight to drink with a gentleman.”

He laughed at that. “Yeah, well, sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re one gentleman short for that.”

She slid onto a stool at the counter and eyed him over the rim of her glass. “I’m not so sure about that,” she murmured.

His smile faltered and he swallowed, made suddenly and strangely uneasy by her gaze. There was nothing predatory in it, nothing overtly seductive, nothing even remotely avaricious, like the looks he’d so often seen her get when a mark came into sight. Her brown eyes were soft, dark and deep, and, for now anyway, filled with nothing but Sophie.

Nate was a fuckin’ idiot.

He raised his glass to his lips and drank deeply, almost desperately, needing the hard kick of raw liquor to divert his thoughts. Nothing good lay that way. He liked Sophie, when he wasn’t tempted to strangle her, certainly respected her, and God knew she was a beautiful woman. She also seemed to respect, even like, him, had backed him up more than once and truly seemed to care about what he thought. But, contrary to what Hardison thought, he didn’t automatically try to sleep with every beautiful woman who crossed his path. Sophie was a friend, a colleague, and still so tangled up in Nate Ford she’d likely never be free again. Nate was also a friend, a man he deeply respected – when he wasn’t tempted to strangle _him_ – and, technically, his boss.

And Eliot Spencer never shit where he ate.

To his surprise, the bourbon went down smoothly, like slightly warmed silk sliding down his throat, and he smiled and licked his lips in true appreciation. “It’s good stuff,” he breathed. “I’ll be takin’ the bottle with me when I go.”

She tipped her head slightly to one side and frowned thoughtfully. “Why did you come here?” she asked. “I know Nate didn’t send you.”

He snorted at that. “Hell, no. He said we should respect your wishes.” _Stupid bastard …_ His smile faded and he dropped his gaze to his glass, unable to meet her eyes. “Parker called me,” he said softly. “She was … upset.”

She winced and looked away as guilt stabbed through her. She hadn’t really thought about Parker, about how their … peculiar … little thief might react– “I probably should have told her myself,” she whispered.

“Yeah, that might’ve been good,” Eliot bit out with a flare of anger, remembering how shattered Parker had sounded. The girl wasn’t right at the best of times, and this had only knocked her even further out of orbit. She’d formed a deep attachment to Sophie, seemed to look upon her as a cross between an older sister and mother, someone who accepted her as she was – no easy thing, since she was _Parker_ – but also tried to nudge her a little closer to reality. And now Sophie was taking that away, just one more loss in the already too-long line of them Parker had suffered. Yeah, Eliot was pissed. “Might’ve been nice if we’d _all_ heard it from you, instead of just gettin’ it from Nate. Although at least this time it wasn’t Sterling, right?”

He regretted the words the moment they were out, saw how they hit Sophie like a blow and drove the breath from her body. She gasped sharply and went white, her stricken eyes widening, and he reached out quickly to catch her glass just as it slipped from her nerveless fingers. He swore softly and set both glasses down, bowing his head and clenching his hands into fists, furious at himself. It had been a cheap shot, and one she didn’t deserve.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped. “I didn’t mean–”

“Yes, you did,” she said softly, sliding her hands into her lap and twisting them together. “You still blame me for what happened then–”

“I blame all of us!” he snapped, lifting his head sharply and throwing up his hands in fury. “I blame you for not bein’ honest with us, I blame Nate for bein’ too drunk and too desperate for revenge to think straight, and I blame myself for not seein’ how out of control everything was! Nate was spinnin’ out and takin’ us all down with him, you wanted to punish him for bein’ such a bastard, and I didn’t do a fuckin’ thing to stop _any_ of it! I just went along with it, thinkin’ we’d pull it out of our asses like we always do, and I ended up with broken ribs, a concussion, and havin’ ta help Hardison blow up the only fuckin’ _home_ I’ve had in longer than I can remember! And now I’m watchin’ you blow it all up again! _What the fuck are you doin’?_ ” he shouted, slamming his fists onto the counter.

She gasped and jerked back, only barely keeping herself from falling off the stool, stunned by his outburst. As she watched, he whirled away and stalked across the kitchen, as far from her as he could get, his face twisted into a mask of anguish, his body tight, his anger and hurt rolling off him in waves. He paced like a caged animal, running a hand repeatedly through his hair, his other hand knotted into a fist and jammed as deeply into his pocket as he could get it.

If she didn’t get through to him now, she’d lose him, lose _them_ , forever.

“I’m not … trying to blow up anything,” she said softly, wanting to go to him but doubting it would be wise. A cornered Eliot was not a pleasant Eliot. “I just– I need some time. I don’t know … who I am any more–”

“You’re Sophie Devereaux,” he grated.

“No, I’m _not_ ,” she insisted. “Not any more. And not for a very long time. Sophie is someone from a different time, a different life. She never cared about anyone but herself, thought only of the next big score, of what she could get for herself. And she never once thought about anyone else who might get hurt in the process. But then, one night,” her voice and eyes softened at the memory, “a man she thought she knew stepped back into her life, and he brought others with him, and something … _she_ … began to change–” Her voice broke and she bowed her head, pressing fingertips to her mouth and closing her eyes against the sting of tears. She had put aside personas before, had retired them when they no longer served her purposes, but had never had one just slip away before, leaving nothing in its place. And the ache of that emptiness, the depth of that void, was crippling. “I’m not that person any more,” she whispered. “I don’t know _who_ I am! And I won’t be any good to anyone else, to any of _you_ , until I find out.”

He turned back to her, hurt by the sight of her distress but having no idea how to help her. He had never lost himself, had never lost sight of who he was. Sometimes, his worst nightmare was that he knew himself only too well. “So just make up somebody else,” he said hoarsely, seizing upon what seemed the easiest answer. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? Just pick a name, make up a story and get Hardison to make up the documents. You can be anybody you wanta be!”

She sighed and shook her head. “It’s not that easy, Eliot. I wish it were, but it’s not. What I do depends on confidence, on my knowing _everything_ about myself, whoever I am at the time. I have to be certain of myself before I can convince anyone else, and, just now–” She winced and bowed her head, feeling again the doubt, the very loss of self, that had been growing for some time. “I’m not. I don’t know who I am, I don’t know what I want. There’s an emptiness inside me, and I have no idea how to fill it. I feel as if I’m floundering, and that’s dangerous–”

“Then let us help you!” he urged, knowing he sounded desperate but unable to help himself. “You don’t have to go. You can stay here, with us–”

“And do what?” she asked, wiping impatiently at a tear. “Sit in Nate’s apartment and keep the home fires burning while the four of you go out on jobs? Watch television and eat bonbons while you’re out risking your lives? Or, worse, go with you and then have all of _you_ distracted in the middle of a job because you’re wondering if _I’m_ all right?” She shook her head fiercely, appalled by the very thought. “No. That would put the rest of you in danger, and I can’t do that. I _won’t_ do that. Not again. Not after last time. No,” she added, lifting her chin and meeting his gaze almost defiantly as he stared at her in surprise, “you’re _not_ the only one who blames me for that little fiasco. I let what _I_ wanted, what I thought I needed, come before what was best for all of us, and it very nearly destroyed us. I couldn’t live with myself if that happened again, if something happened to one of you because of me.”

“We can take care of ourselves,” he reminded her sharply. “Hell, we were doin’ that for years before we ever met each other, remember? But Nate’s always sayin’ we’re better together. Fine. Then let’s _be_ together!”

She smiled slightly, sadly, touched by the pleading, and the hurt, in his eyes. He needed this, needed _them_ , even if he’d never admit it, was frightened of losing it again.

And wasn’t that a revelation? Eliot Spencer, afraid?

She slid off the stool and crossed the kitchen to him, moving slowly, not wanting to startle or threaten him. She was fairly certain he would stop himself before he could hurt her, but she had no desire to put him into that situation. She’d caused him enough pain as it was.

“Please,” she called quietly, holding out a hand, “try to understand. I know it’s difficult – believe me, it’s tearing me apart, too – but I have to do this. I’ve spent a lifetime lying to other people, but I can’t go on lying to myself. Or to the four of you.” She smiled sadly. “You deserve more than that from me. You’re all the family I have.”

He watched her come to him, watched her stop before him, and dropped his gaze to her hand. It was just like her – beautiful, perfectly manicured, seemingly fragile but with a hidden strength. Hardly knowing he did so, he reached out and closed his blunt, bruised fingers around hers.

“Families are supposed to take care of each other,” he said thickly, staring down at their joined hands.

She reached up with her other hand and gently brushed the long hair away from his face, tucking it behind his ears and marveling yet again at just how vulnerable so strong and dangerous a man could look. “For now, you’ll have to take care of them for me,” she said softly. “Will you do that?”

He lifted his head sharply, startled by her words. “Me?” he protested, close to panic at the thought. Jesus, he was as fucked up as the rest of them! “I can’t–”

“Yes, you can.” She smiled sweetly. “You already do, you just won’t admit it. You check Parker’s harnesses even after she’s done it, you make sure Hardison doesn’t overdose on sugar and caffeine, and you make certain there’s always real food in Nate’s refrigerator. You watch over us on jobs, you make certain we get out, and, when we don’t, you’re the first one back in. And who else is there? Hardison is too young, Parker is too … Parker, and Nate–” She smiled sadly and shook her head. She loved him, she supposed she always would, but she was also painfully aware of his weaknesses. “He can barely take care of himself. You’re the strong one, Eliot, the rational one. You always have been.” She laid her hand against his cheek. “You protect us and make us feel safe. Why do you think _you’re_ the one Parker called to make this all right again?”

He swallowed hard, seeing in her eyes the truth he’d been fighting so hard to deny. “But I can’t do that right now, can I?” he whispered, his heart aching for the pain he saw in her. “Not for you, anyway.”

“No,” she sighed. “But,” she leaned into him and brushed a light kiss against his cheek, “I appreciate knowing you want to. Even now, you’re trying to protect me.”

He ducked his head quickly, horrified to feel himself blushing. Shit …

She smiled softly, suddenly realizing how fond of him she’d grown. In the beginning, she’d thought of him as nothing more than the hired muscle, a man who thought and talked with his fists, yet, while he certainly was that, he was also so much more. She’d been as surprised as anyone to learn that he was an accomplished cook, that he read and played chess, that he was as good with children as he was with women. And while he seemed to delight in bickering with Hardison, was confounded by Parker and took a wicked pleasure in deflating Nate, he was deeply and fiercely protective of them, and would lay down his life for any of them. Including her.

“Promise me,” she said suddenly, lifting a hand and cupping it to his cheek, “that you’ll let them take care of you, too.” He lifted his head and started to protest, but she laid a finger over his lips to silence him and smiled softly. “I know they’re not always good at it, and I know they make you crazy. But you need them as much as they need you. And,” she slid her hand up to brush her thumb against the gash in his forehead, “you’re not always as strong as you’d like to think. It’s all right to fall apart sometimes.” She smiled wryly. “Take it from someone who is doing a grand job of it now.”

He stared at her intently, wishing he could help her but knowing he couldn’t. Whatever she needed, it lay far beyond his power to get it for her. There were some things even he couldn’t retrieve. “It’s not gonna be the same without you,” he sighed. “Nate needs you, Parker needs you– Hell,” he gave a choked laugh, “we all need you. It’s just … not gonna be right.”

“You’ll adapt,” she assured him. “You’re the best. And I’ll never be more than a phone call away. Now,” she smiled and winked and tugged on his hand, “we haven’t finished our drinks.” She slipped back into her Southern drawl. “And you wouldn’t leave a lady dry, now, would you?”

He laughed softly and shook his head, following her back to the counter. “No, ma’am, I wouldn’t.” He picked up her glass and handed it to her, then picked up his own. But as he gazed into the amber liquid, his smile faded. “Parker wanted me to cook us all a happy reunion dinner after I ‘retrieved’ you,” he sighed. “I guess that won’t be happenin’.”

She arched a dark brow. “Is that what she sent you to do? _Retrieve_ me?”

He forced another smile and shrugged. “It is kinda my job. And I’m not sure Parker realizes there are some things that can’t be stolen.”

She felt a twinge of sorrow as she thought about the younger woman. From what little she knew of Parker’s early life, she could understand why she had turned out so plainly bent. But she loved the girl as fiercely as she had come to love all the others, had grown deeply protective of her, and hated the thought of causing further hurt to her.

“Tell her I’m sorry,” she asked softly, knowing it was an unfair burden to lay on him but unable to think of anyone else who would be capable of bearing it. He was protective of Parker, too, even when she was driving him crazy, and the little thief seemed to look upon him as some sort of big brother-guardian angel-expert on life and the world. “Tell her she’s not losing me, not losing us, that things are just … changing for a bit. We’ll all be together again, eventually, and things will be even better than they are now. Will you tell her that for me?”

He stared at her for long moments, then shook his head slowly. “Not if it means I’m gonna have to lie to her. I figure too many others have done that, and I won’t be one of them. Not even for you.”

His words hit her hard, hurt her deeply, but she supposed she deserved them. And, for a hitter, thief, and whatever else he was, Eliot Spencer could be a brutally honest man.

How strange that she, a woman who’d built her life around lying, should appreciate that so much …

She leaned forward and snagged his gaze with hers. “It won’t be a lie, Eliot,” she assured him. “I _will_ come back, and Parker will have her dinner, I promise. And who knows?” She gave an airy smile and tossed her head. “Maybe I’ll even learn to cook while I’m away and help you prepare it!”

He laughed aloud at the very notion. “ _You?_ In the _kitchen_? Seriously?” He laughed again, unable to help himself.

Sophie smiled warmly at that sound and filed it away in her memory, along with the light in Hardison’s eyes when he cracked a particularly difficult code, the wild glee on Parker’s face as she leapt from a building and the quiet warmth of Nate’s voice when he was being himself, and human. Some parts of her life she needed to bury. But these, these she needed to keep with her to remind her not of who she was, but who she wanted to be.

“It’s possible,” she said at last, lifting her glass to him in a toast. “Stranger things have happened.”

*~*~*

He unlocked his front door and simply leaned against it for a few moments, exhausted, drained, and desperately in need of food, sleep, alcohol, and people who didn’t regularly run his mind through a meat grinder. His phone was ringing again, but he let it go, knowing it was either Parker or Hardison and in no mood to talk to either. He finally pushed himself upright and opened the door. As he stepped inside, he remembered Mikel and wondered if she had stayed.

He wasn’t entirely sure he was up to another bout with her just yet, either, but it would certainly be fun trying–

_Shit._

He stopped short as he entered his living room and simply dropped his keys to the floor, staring in numb disbelief. His big, overstuffed sofa, on which he loved to stretch out and read, and where he had first learned of that thing Mikel did with her tongue, had been hacked and sliced to ruin, presumably by the antique but razor-sharp scimitar he’d smuggled with such care out of Baghdad, and which now jutted menacingly from what remained of a cushion. On the floor before the sofa was the shirt Mikel had been wearing when he’d left, also cut to ribbons. And he was pretty sure that was Jimmy Carter’s book on the Middle East, which he hadn’t even read yet, smoldering in the fireplace.

_Fuck._

Swallowing hard against the sudden twisting in his gut, he waded further into the house, following the trail of destruction she’d left. The very _selective_ destruction. The Persian rug where she’d thrown him down and fucked him senseless last night? Hacked to pieces. And, yeah, he could understand that, as an Israeli, she might have a slight _thing_ against Iran, but, shit, did she have any _idea_ how hard he’d worked to steal that sucker from the Golestan Palace and smuggle it out of Tehran? It and a few other trinkets had been the “payment” he’d taken for himself after the mullahs had stiffed him on a job. As a professional, she should appreciate that.

No way in fuckin’ hell was he going upstairs to see what chaos she’d left up there …

Because it was hard enough seeing the Syrian dagger driven into the mahogany captain’s desk – from an 18th-century British East India Company ship, no less – in his office. Okay, could he help it if his favorite blades came from Arab countries? Why the hell couldn’t she have destroyed the fucking computer and broken Hardison’s heart instead of his?

The trail of wreckage and ruin led into the kitchen – _nononono!_ – and stopped in front of his refrigerator. With a sick feeling of dread, he braced himself, slowly opened the door and stared inside. Everything was different, had been carefully rearranged. He had no doubt she had quite patiently and methodically opened _everything_ , and shuddered as he imagined what else she might have done.

Because, frankly, it was something he would do. Had done.

And, crap, now he was going to have to throw out _everything_ , because no fucking way was he going to try to figure out what she had poisoned and what she hadn’t. But he did take some comfort from the fact that she clearly hadn’t _really_ wanted him dead, or she wouldn’t have made her tampering so blatantly obvious. She was seriously pissed that he’d left her, no doubt, but apparently she thought enough of him just to give him a warning this time–

And, shit, what did it say about _him_ that he considered it a _positive_ sign in a relationship when a trained assassin let him know she had probably _poisoned his food_?

Jesus, he needed to start meeting some sane women!

His phone rang yet again, and he swore and dug it out of his pocket, answering it without even checking the ID. Didn’t matter, because he wasn’t going to enjoy it no matter _who_ it was.

“What?” he snarled, hating the world and his life.

_“Sophie called me.”_

He sighed again. Parker. She still didn’t sound great, but at least she didn’t sound like she was breaking apart. “I tried, Parker. I swear to God, I tried. But she needs this.”

_“I know. She told me.”_ She paused, and he found himself holding his breath, not at all certain what to expect next. To his relief, it was surprisingly rational. For Parker. _“I still don’t want her to leave. It’s going to be all wrong without her. I told her we could steal something, that it would help. It always helps me. It’s like therapy, only without the pills.”_

He smiled slightly. He much preferred Parker stealing to Parker on pills. Maybe he should take her to that bank …

_“But she said she’s not leaving forever, so I guess that’s something. I mean, sometimes things change, and it’s not always awful, right? The rest of us are still together, so that’s good.”_

“Yeah, darlin’, that’s great,” he breathed, closing his refrigerator and turning his back to it. He could have wept for the inch-thick Porterhouse steaks soaking in his own personal marinade. But no way in hell was he eating them now. “Look, Parker, I gotta go.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I gotta go to the grocery store–”

_“Ooh, wait, I’ll go with you!”_ Her voice brightened immediately, and he could almost see the strange glee on her face. He had no idea why, but she loved grocery stores, even though she never knew what to buy. Her buggies were always classic examples of random chaos. _“We can pick out what you’re cooking for us tonight!”  
_  
“Parker, I’m not–”

_“Of course, you are. I saw in a movie that after a death in the family, you have to have food.”_

And damn if his fingers weren’t at the bridge of his nose again. “Parker, Sophie isn’t dead–”

_“But we had a funeral for her, so now we have to have food. It was in the **movie** , Eliot, keep up! You should know this! The movie was about Southern people, and you’re from the South. According to the movies, food is very important to your people. I bet that’s why you’re such a good cook.”_

Eliot blinked against an impending headache. His people?

_“You wait there, I’ll be right over. We should go to that big place, that whole food store. I think all food should be whole, don’t you? Broken food doesn’t make any sense. And I’ll pick out the carrots.”_

His fingers pinched harder as the headache arrived. He’d forgotten about the carrots. “Parker–”

_“Please?”_

And goddamn it all to hell if she didn’t crack him wide open again. His hand fell away from his nose, he lifted his eyes to the ceiling and shoved a hand into his pocket. “Yeah, come on over, darlin’,” he sighed, knowing when a fight was lost.

Besides, he’d promised Sophie …

_“We’re gonna be all right, Eliot, you’ll see,”_ she said suddenly, softly, sounding very much like a little girl who didn’t quite believe what she was saying but was trying to reassure an equally frightened sibling. And maybe that wasn’t quite so far from the truth. _“I mean, it’s gonna be tough, but we’ll figure it out. Sophie said so. We just have to take care of each other. But as long as we stick together, we’ll be fine. I mean, like Nate’s always saying, we’re much better when we’re all together, right?”_

And Eliot was startled to realize how much he _did_ want to believe that. Nate was a fuckin’ dry drunk and control freak with slightly psychotic tendencies, Hardison was an arrogant, aggravating shit who was just way too impressed with his own particular genius, Parker was a deeply broken soul who was only truly sane when she was stealing something and who looked to movies and career criminals to tell her how the world worked–

And they were all he had. They were all he wanted. They were _his_. They were the ones he kept coming back to, the ones who always _took_ him back, the ones who ignored him when he ranted and raged and threatened to kill them all, the ones who teased and tormented him endlessly when anyone else would have been backing away slowly, the ones who fussed over and tended him, however badly, when he was hurt. They were hell on his blood-pressure and made his fuckin’ _hair_ hurt, but–

They were his. And he’d fight heaven and hell at once to keep them.

And just when the fuck had that happened?

“Yeah, darlin’, I guess that’s right,” he breathed, smiling slightly. And, damn, where had his headache gone? “Okay, you come on over, and we’ll go to the grocery store. Just, this time, no testing the produce by taking bites, okay?”

_“But how else–”_

“I’ll show you. And, hey, on the way back, we’ll swing by this bank I thought you’d like to see.”

_“A bank? Oh, I love banks! What kind of safe do they have?”_

Hell, maybe this family shit wasn’t completely nuts after all–

He suddenly spotted a pair of his glasses lying in the sink, badly mangled, and the hilt of his best butcher knife sticking out of the garbage disposal.

His women, though, _they_ were all fucking insane.

_The End_  



End file.
